


Seven Cigarettes

by Amanitus



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mild Language, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Sexual References, The life of a Phantomhive maid, but i digress, canonverse, sfw, unless you include the fetishization of cigerette-smoking, which is just barely repressed oral fixation I admit, who's not the only one stealing Bard's cigarettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanitus/pseuds/Amanitus
Summary: Everyone has their secrets.The Phantomhive household isn’t any different.It’s not even five in the morning, and you’re already stealing a cigarette from the cook’s little tin behind the bread-box on the counter.You’re not sorry. It’s bloody cold. Bard will never notice one missing. And it’s going to be a long day; you might as well.A job is a job; but as a maid at the Phantomhive manor, this job might be something else altogether.A one-shot story told in seven cigarettes.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 127





	Seven Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted as a response to [this ask](https://amanitus.tumblr.com/post/615968038719717376/just-found-your-acc-and-im-in-love-damn-if-you) on Tumblr.
> 
> It's my first attempt at a self-insert fic, and my first try at writing in the present tense too-- I quite like it, although it's far outside my comfort zone.  
> Anyway. let me know what you think.
> 
> The artwork is by the darling [Lush](https://lushslug.tumblr.com/).

****

1.

Everyone has their secrets.

The Phantomhive household isn’t any different.

It’s not even five in the morning, and you’re already stealing a cigarette from the cook’s little tin behind the bread-box on the counter. 

You’re not sorry. It’s bloody cold. Bard will never notice one missing. And it’s going to be a long day; you might as well. There’s nobody to see you tuck the tin away and feel in your apron pocket for the flint lighter; the kitchen’s still empty.

The fire’s already going in the stove, though; the butler has probably been down this morning. Or was up late enough to keep it stoked. He’s an odd one, Mr Michaelis, and you’ve already heard all the jokes about him– how he never sleeps. How he can hear your mistakes from halfway across the house and turn up out of nowhere to sigh at you. Or snap at you.

And it’s not a nice snap, either; half your life living on the streets of London and that man’s pissed-off voice manages to be both the politest and most godawful thing you’ve ever heard. 

You sit out on the back step, closing the kitchen door behind you, and it’s frosty out here. Still dark. The vegetable garden is only a dark blur against starry sky. But the cigarette smoke is a sizzle in your throat and you warm your hands in the folds of your skirts. You smoke quickly. You really shouldn’t, they’d be cross, likely, and it’s one of your better-kept secrets.

But everyone has secrets.

The young master, for example. Something is going on there, though you haven’t quite figured it out yet. Bard’s told you the Earl of Phantomhive runs a business in London but you don’t believe everything he says; Bard’s an American. He talks a lot of shite. 

All the staff are a bit _different_ , though; the other housemaid is Chinese and carries a gun inside her garter; you’ve seen it when you both dress in the mornings. The gardening boy is bright as a bee and breaks everything he touches. Mr Tanaka spends half his time dozing in his office but you’ve seen him catch a falling tea-cup between two fingers. 

You mutter under your breath. ‘Steward my arse.’ The House Steward is ex-military if you’ve ever seen it.

And your young master’s an odd one, no doubting that. The boy’s an orphaned millionaire. He has a lot of enemies; and the head butler here is also his bodyguard. And his chef– because the Earl prefers Mr Michaelis’s food, and Bard could burn salad just by looking at it. And Mr Michaelis is his valet, too, because the kid won’t allow anybody else too near. 

That’s the official story you’ve been told. Maybe it’s even true. But it sounds like a fairground dodge, and you should know; you’ve never made an honest penny in your life, not until this job. This year, the last few months, and a job as a housemaid, of all things. 

There must be something a bit odd going on. Because who hires a murderous street-thief as a maid? Who drags a half-starved girl out of the law-courts and gives them a clean dress and a pocket-knife and a bloody _job_?

Somebody who wants killers in their house, and pays them rather well for it, too. Somebody who needs protecting. 

You’ve heard all the gossip in the kitchen. You’ve got a few theories yourself.

Lord Ciel is insane, and the butler is his warden and has to follow him everywhere in case he has a fit and slaughters somebody. Or falls out a window, or off a bridge. And maybe that’s it; the young master has more than his fair share of bruises, sometimes, on his skinny shins. His neck. More than a little boy should who never plays outside. And why does a little boy need a bodyguard, anyway? 

Everyone here has secrets.

You breathe out cigarette smoke in the frosty air, and it’s a pale and satisfying cloud.

You’ve heard other stories, too. Other rumours. Last week Bard was talking to the butcher’s delivery boy, out the back when they thought you couldn’t hear; the earl upstairs has nympholepsy, and his butler is the only man they’ve found who can keep him satisfied. And nympholepsy’s a new word but it doesn’t take any effort to figure out what they mean– not with the other words they’re using, and Bard’s bellow of laughter.

‘Gad.’ The butcher’s boy had been snorting. ‘ _I’d_ fuck my master for sixty pound a year.’

‘I’d do it for free,’ Bard had said, and they’d been cackling like a pair of right dicks. 

Rubbish, but you can’t help wondering next time you see the Earl. He’s small and pretty and sour-faced and sometimes he looks nothing like a child at all. And you’d believe almost anything about Mr Michaelis. There’s something about his pale composure, his watchful dark eyes. 

It’s hard to believe _that_ , though; the butler’s a walking advertisement for Proper Manners. Crisp gloves. Clean collar. Quick and quiet, a shadow at the young master’s heels. Well-groomed as any nob’s servant should be. More beautiful than any man really ought to be.

Quite perfect, and strange as they come.

He’s rarely around in the kitchen, or maybe you just miss it every time; he turns up to organise menus and clean up spills and clap his hands together, brisk and cold, and everyone scatters at his word. He doesn’t eat at the staff table. Doesn’t seem to eat at all. _Vampire_ , says the dairy-girl who comes on Wednesdays, but she’s read too many books.

And you don’t trust books, either; only your eyes. This house is a strange one.

You have no complaints, though. It’s warm here. Safe. You have a new name. Miss Somers. Miss Mary Somers, if anybody asks; it’s not your name. It doesn’t matter.

Inside, you can hear Bard dragging out a frying pan to start burning breakfast. You sigh, and stub out the cigarette, and drop the butt into the geraniums beside the step, and correct yourself: you have one complaint. 

Nobody likes burnt eggs. 

If you’re lucky, though, you might see Mr Michaelis lose his temper over it. 

It almost cheers you up as you head back inside.

2.

The next time you take one of Bard’s cigarettes is almost a week later.  
It’s too early. Too dark. You were awake half the night and you’re tired and properly pissed off and Bard can go _hang_ , actually, and you take another cigarette this morning. 

There are less in the tin than you’d expected. And that’s odd, because Bard rarely even smokes the bloody things, only walks around with them unlit, or tucked behind his ear, or chewing the papery end into pulp. Unless Bard’s had a very bad few days, you can’t help suspecting somebody else has nicked a couple since you were here last. 

‘Probably Mr Tanaka,’ you whisper under your breath, and the thought is stupid enough to make you grin in the quiet kitchen.

The first birds are scattering amongst the pumpkin beds when you open the back door. And there’s already somebody sitting out here in the dark.  
You blink, because it’s impossible.

It’s Mr Michaelis, and there’s a cigarette dangling between his white-gloved fingers. 

He looks up at you, and away again. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘It’s you, is it?’

That’s just rude. Head butler or not, he’s just been caught smoking by a housemaid and you’d think he’d have a little shame. Apparently not. 

You look at him with more curiosity than politeness. ‘Why wouldn’t it be me?’  
_I’ve been working here nine weeks, you arrogant sod. You’ve spoken to me every morning._ And you remember too late that you’re really supposed to call him ‘sir.’ But you’re not in the mood. And perhaps he won’t notice if you drop it once or twice.

You leave the kitchen door open when you sit down; apart from any sense of propriety they might expect from you in this house, you would actually prefer not to be left in the darkness with the man, and when you settle yourself on the step you gather your skirts away from his body. 

He’s tucked up tiredly, too much leg and not enough room, and he doesn’t make any effort to shift over for you. His fine face is very sharp in the side-glow from the kitchen lamp inside. 

Have you ever seen him sitting down anywhere before? 

You feel the cool cylinder of the stolen cigarette in your curled hand. ‘I didn’t know you had a habit,’ you say. 

Mr Michaelis arches his eyebrows, and breathes out a thin ribbon of smoke before he answers. ‘I don’t.’

‘You’ve been taking cigarettes out of Bard’s tin.’

He’s not yielding an inch. ‘Have I, now?’ 

You know how to handle every sort of stare from _Drunken Sailor_ to _Slimy Old Man_ , but the butler’s stare is something else again. You can feel it behind your knees. An uncomfortable sort of place to feel anything, and you wonder how soon you can look away without showing your confusion.

‘I was wondering who else had been nicking them.’ You tuck your own cigarette between your lips and reach for your lighter. And when you put it back in your apron pocket he’s still looking at you, and the expression on his beautiful face is one you haven’t seen before. It’s surprise. 

And Mr Michaelis laughs, softly, a sound like treacle.

‘Well, damn me for a tuppence,’ he says, and the smoke he breathes out comes in little puffs like clouds as he laughs again. ‘It would appear that Bard has two sinners in his kitchen. You shouldn’t, you know.’

‘Shouldn’t what?’ And you’re bristling already. You’ve been taking care of yourself for years without a scrap of help. You don’t need a ponce in a tailcoat telling you how to behave; not before the day’s even started.

‘Shouldn’t smoke,’ he says. ‘It isn’t healthy. It’s damaging to every type of human tissue.’

You put your chin on your folded fist. ‘Are you a doctor, now, _sir_?’ You can’t help the little honorific. He’ll know it’s not politeness.

And maybe he is a doctor. Maybe that’s the young master’s secret: he has a terrible disease, and it eats away at him, and he has to have a doctor at his side all the time. Injecting him with something dreadful. And he’s an earl and doesn’t want the gossip getting around, and this man pretends to be a servant.

But Mr Michaelis is shaking his dark head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Oh no. Nothing like that. You see, I’m simply one hell of a butler.’ And his thin mouth pulls into a smile. He seems to find it quite amusing.

You aren’t quite as impressed. ‘Are you indeed?’ As you shake out your cigarette ash on the step.

Mr Michaelis sighs. ‘Well,’ he says, tartly. ‘Humour clearly isn’t your strength.’ He stands, brushing off his tailcoat. ‘What _is_ your strength, would you say?’

Your eyes are on the low line of the dark garden, still dim in the chill before dawn, and you’re looking at something quite different in your head: a rainy alley-way, and pooling blood at your feet. ‘I’m good at polishing silverware,’ you say, ‘and stabbing things.’ 

‘Perfect,’ Mr Michaelis says, his voice a whisper of amusement above your head.

‘And what about you?’ You have to tilt your head back to look up at him, the shape of his tilted head sharp against the kitchen glow and the smoke around him.

‘My strengths?’

You don’t blink. ‘Your health. If cigarettes are such a sin.’ It’s too early in the day to be intimidated by anybody, even if they are 6-foot-whatever and smug as fuckery.

‘Oh. As for me–’ Mr Michaelis grinds out his cigarette on the leather sole of his shoe, and drops the butt into the geraniums. ‘Smoking is the most innocent thing I’ve done all week.’

And he bows his smooth head in farewell, just a fraction, and goes back inside.  
By the time you follow, the kitchen is already empty.

3.

There are other stolen moments, smoking out the back. Late at night before you go to bed, and sometimes when you first come down to the quiet kitchen; but the butler is never there. He’s only a shadow in the dining room, a presence in Mr Tanaka’s office, and every so often a sharp voice around the kitchen doorway when somebody has done something particularly stupid.

Sometimes the somebody is you. When Mr Michaelis sighs down at your badly-ironed tablecloths there is no sign in his long dark eyes that you’ve ever sat together on the kitchen step.

And that’s a week. Two weeks. 

Other cigarettes, but none of them seem to count until the next time you find him on the step again.

Half past five in the morning. You open the back door, and Mr Michaelis is there. He isn’t alone. There is a flash of pale fur between his knees, and a small pink nose pushes out his lap.

You raise your eyebrows at the butler. At the little pointy-eared head. And you sit down on the step next to them. ‘You have a cat.’

‘You are particularly observant today, Miss Somers.’

There’s no point acknowledging his utter smugness. But the kitten is lovely, and you reach out and stroke beneath its dainty chin. ‘Where do you keep her? I haven’t seen any cats in the house.’

You realise you’re speaking more carefully, polishing up the rough edge of your accent, and you hate yourself for it. You’re not ashamed of what you are, of the way you’ve survived, of your history in the streets of London. But there’s something about the rich precision in his own voice that makes you want to pull your apron straight.

‘I could tell you,’ replies the butler calmly, ‘but I would have to kill you.’ He’s smoking again this morning, his gloved fingers poised by his chin. Even sitting down, he manages to be head and shoulders taller than you.

You don’t look up at him as you pet the little cat gently. ‘Even you have secrets, then.’

‘I have three.’

‘Oh?’ And you glance up now, meeting his amusement with your own level stare as you light your cigarette. ‘What are the other two?’

‘Ah,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘You really don’t appear to grasp the concept of secrecy, Miss Somers.’ And he looks up at the damp dark sky, his long sigh leaving a pale drift in the air as he runs his hand lightly down the kitten’s back. He handles the animal very delicately, like something precious, and it makes your neck feel hot to watch it, like it’s something you weren’t meant to see.

You look back up at the butler’s face. ‘Lord Phantomhive doesn’t like cats.’ You’re stating a fact, and you know it.

‘No, he does not.’ The butler’s answer is crisp.

‘Lord Phantomhive doesn’t know you smoke, either.’ 

‘No,’ says Mr Michaelis again, ‘he does not.’ And his side-glance holds something that might be a warning. It’s hot, and steady, and uncomfortable. But most of his glances are.

You turn back to look at the long low vegetable garden, muffled under its winter bed of straw. ‘Won’t the young master guess?’ You’re actually thinking about it now. ‘He’ll smell it on you.’

‘He won’t.’

‘He will.’ You look back at him, and lean forward to his shoulder, trying to catch the scent of bitter smoke around his fine black jacket. But Mr Michaelis doesn’t smell of cigarette smoke at all– only laundry starch, and warm wool, and an odd sweetness like the camphor boxes where the linens are kept. ‘Hmph.’ You sit back again. ‘Well, that’s not fair.’

He really is a little too perfect.

Mr Michaelis smiles. ‘And you.’ He leans down, his chin almost brushing at your ruffled white cap, and his hand goes still on the kitten’s back. His sniff at the side of your neck is deliberate. Almost like he’s an animal himself, and it’s unsettling. 

You hold your head steady. If you turn even a fraction the ribbons of your cap will brush against his cheek. 

‘I smell of smoke,’ you say carefully. You already know. ‘But I don’t think the Earl is going to be close enough to notice.’ And you can hear your voice, unsteady, and you really wish it wasn’t.

‘You do,’ says Mr Michaelis. His breath is close enough to be warm on your skin. ‘Smoke and yellow soap and lemon tea-cake. Cigarettes aren’t the only things you’ve been stealing from Bard’s kitchen.’

And your cheeks are hot, flaming, and you pull away to bend and scuff out your cigarette. How the fuck had he figured that out? There was almost a whole cake there under the glass dome thing in the pantry, and last night you’d taken the smallest _smallest_ sliver of it after you’d finished mopping up the floors. Last night. The kitchen had been empty.

‘You need not worry,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘I know how to keep a secret.’

But you don’t look at him. And you don’t wait around to hear more. 

You go back into the warm bright kitchen, and you can hear the others downstairs already, talking at the staff table as you head back in.

‘Maybe it will be an exciting week.’ Finny’s high voice carries around the corner. ‘Maybe somebody will come for the young master. It’s been a long time since we had to kill anyone.’

‘Quiet, now,’ says Bard. 

But Finny keeps on. ‘Do you remember that time they all climbed over the garden wall and Mey got _seven_ of them? You were _so_ –’

‘Quiet,’ says Bard, and they all look up when you come around the corner.

Finny waves. ‘Morning, Miss Somers!’ 

And you nod politely as you head through to the pantry. That isn’t your name. But Finny isn’t a gardener, either.

You’re not the only one here with a secret to keep.

4.

Two days later. 

You never planned to make a habit of this, but you were awake too early again, and the thought of the silence outside the kitchen door is tempting as you dress in the cold bedroom and head downstairs. 

You were never going to get back to sleep anyway.

You haven’t seen much more of Mr Michaelis, between the dining room and the laundry and the kitchen, but sometimes you hear him with Mr Tanaka in the Steward’s office. Or coming down the staircase with the young master, talking to Lord Ciel in a warm low voice, so different from the impatient snappishness he uses on everyone else. Hard to know why he bothers, the young master’s a rotten brat– never so much as looks at you, sulking as he passes, and Mr Michaelis doesn’t look around ether.

But a servant is paid to give their full attention, aren’t they? They’re paid for their loyalty.

You can’t quite figure why everyone else here seems so loyal to Mr Michaelis, either. The butler’s tetchier than a Wapping copper. But Bard hasn’t mentioned the missing slice of cake. So he hasn’t noticed. And Mr Michaelis hasn’t pointed it out.

He can’t be all that bad.

The kitchen is empty when you get down there, and warm, and clean. Considering the whole place is almost empty, things do seem to be managed surprisingly well. A handful of servants should never be able to run a house this big, but you’re beginning to see that it’s the butler who keeps everything together. 

And butler or not, you’d probably sneak a smoke too if you were stuck with the brat upstairs.

You try to get a glass of water but the pipes are frozen in the kitchen sink. Nothing comes out of the shaking taps and you stare at them. And mutter. ‘Sodding nuisance.’

Bard’s cigarette tin is getting emptier. You take one anyway.

And sit out on the empty step for a while, watching the silhouette of the bare apple trees tossing in the wind beyond the garden wall.

The kitchen door rattles and you know without turning who it’s going to be. There’s no reason for anybody else to be out this early; no good reason.

Mr Michaelis sits down slowly on the step beside you. 

‘The pipes are frozen,’ he says, and somehow it’s better than _good morning_.

‘I know.’

‘Bloody nuisance,’ he says. 

Even Mr Manners has his limits, then. 

‘Indeed,’ you say, copying his usual slow amusement, and he smiles back at you. Quick and sharp as a knife. It stings like one, too.

He’s patting down his jacket-pocket for his lighter, and you wave yours. ‘Here.’ And you flick the little flint-wheel, and hold it towards him.

‘Mhm,’ Mr Michaelis says around his cigarette, _thanks_ , or _yes_ , or something else, and he holds your hand still with his own as he bends his dark head down to the pale flare of the flame. His gloved fingers are long, skinny, much too strong on your wrist.

His eyes flick up to meet yours as the cigarette catches alight and he arches one fine brow, a quirk; a question.

You both sit back again. It’s not until you let out your breath that you realise you were holding it at all.

‘Bard’s nearly out of cigarettes.’ His voice is quiet. He breathes out with a sigh.

‘Bard smokes too much,’ you say, and the butler smiles.

‘Indeed. I ought to give him a stiff talking-to.’

‘He’s going to notice, one of these days.’

‘Mhm.’ Mr Michaelis blows out a slow puff. ‘And that is when we look him firmly in the eye and tell him he is simply imagining things.’

It’s _we_ now, is it? 

It’s impossible that such a small word can seem to say so much. It takes longer than you’d like to get your thoughts together again. ‘You ought to buy yourself a new tin.’

His quick glance is narrow-eyed. ‘This is not a habit.’

‘No,’ you say. Coolly. ‘Of course it isn’t.’ And you give him a moment before you continue. ‘Twice in one week.’

‘Yes,’ he says guardedly. He’s waiting.

‘Same time, same place.’

His sound is non-committal.

So you ask him. ‘How do _you_ define habit, exactly?’ You shouldn’t be asking him any questions, of course. It’s not your place to. And you haven’t been calling him _sir_ at all, out here. He goes quiet, and you wonder if he’s annoyed.

You look at him, but his silence is only a thoughtful one.

And that’s when you realise that this isn’t the Phantomhive Manor. Not in the butler’s mind. This is somewhere just outside, on the edge of his duties, and the rules are just a little different out here on the kitchen step.

No _sir_ , today, and no _Miss Somers_. No names at all. And you wonder again what he was, before he came here. He’s no more a servant than Mey-rin is. Or you, for that matter.

‘A habit is something that has the dangerous potential to become entrenched,’ Mr Michaelis says at last, and his voice is distant. ‘Something that lingers beyond the point of reason. But this–’ He sits up straighter, and waves his hand airily, leaving a trail of blue smoke behind it. ‘I could give _this_ up any time I please.’

‘I see,’ you say, and you don’t hide either your grin or your obvious doubt. _Bullshit you can._ ‘Same as you could give up your cat.’

‘Cats, plural,’ Mr Michaelis says, and his mouth twitches in a tiny smile. ‘That is necessity, not habit.’ He looks at you sideways. ‘You really ought to give this up, though.’

You’re too annoyed to be anything but blunt. ‘Why?’ 

‘It’s a terrible habit,’ he says. ‘Vile.’ And he leans close to your shoulder as he bends to press out his cigarette. ‘Nothing you want to get yourself involved in, I shouldn’t think.’ His whisper is much too close, a tickle in your ear. ‘Quite filthy, actually.’

It’s probably a good thing he’s getting up and going back inside, because you haven’t got an answer for that one. 

5\. 

Half-past two in the afternoon; a Thursday. You’re hunting in the kitchen for the cigarette tin.

You wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for Finny. He’s been up and down the house, shouting like a lunatic because the apples are ready to eat. Which apples? But there are trees in the estate orchards, apparently, and one of them’s still got fruit on it even though there’s snow on the ground.

You heard them come trooping down the stairs while you were dusting the drawing-room. 

‘Apples on the _trees_ ,’ Finny was saying.

‘That’s where they usually are.’ Mr Michaelis’s voice. And you’d grinned. That’s called sarcasm, Finny.

‘But it’s winter,’ Mey-rin had said. ‘All the fruit’s finished. There shouldn’t be any fruit.’ 

‘It’s like magic,’ said Finny.

‘No, it’s like botany,’ from Mr Michaelis patiently, and you’d lean around the doorway to see as they passed. ‘Good grief. The variety is _pomme de neige_. They’re late season ripeners. You pruned them and they fruited and honestly, do you even understand how plants grow?’

And Mr Michaelis had turned his head as though he knew you were there and he’d smiled at you, a secret arching smile as he shrugged. _See what I must deal with?_ And they’d all disappeared downstairs.

And so did you, a few minutes later, to get another smoke, because the dusting was nearly finished anyway and you weren’t exactly concentrating.

But it isn’t down here. Bard’s cigarette tin. It isn’t behind the bread-bin on the counter. Or behind the raisin jar.

Or up on the top of the dresser, and you’re glaring before you even get to the back door. Bard’s onto you. He’s hidden them properly. And you don’t even know why you’re still heading for the step, but it’s habit now, isn’t it? You’d rather sulk in the brisk afternoon chill than stare at the tidy kitchen shelves.

And you open the back door onto the windy garden, and plump down on the step. You can still hear Finny shouting somewhere over the wall.

And it’s hardly half a minute before the kitchen door opens and shuts again, and Mr Michaelis sits down too. He must have seen you. Or heard you. Doesn’t matter which because he’s got his lighter in his hand.

You watch him. ‘Did you find the tin, then?’

And the butler shoots a little look at you. ‘Bard hid them next to the coffee-grinder.’ He tucks a cigarette between his lips. 

‘Ah.’ You look back at the garden. ‘I didn’t see them.’

‘They were eye level.’

You’re not about to let him ruffle you. ‘Well. Clearly I missed them.’

‘Well,’ he echoes. ‘Clearly it wasn’t _your_ eye-level.’

You’re not short, exactly. Plenty of people are shorter than you are. But there’s nobody in this house taller than Mr Michaelis.

He really is an arse. 

But he’s holding out another cigarette for you, and he’s got this smug little smile like he was just waiting to do it. Which he was. _Clearly._

You take the cigarette, and stay very still as he leans down to light it for you.

‘So,’ you say, ‘apple trees.’

‘Indeed.’ The butler is tucking away his lighter. ‘Our gardener is easily impressed. He has not been a gardener for all that long.’ 

Seems rather obvious. Finny’s hardly more than a kid.

But the butler’s listening, then, and you can hear Finny’s voice in the garden getting louder as the gardener comes around the angle of the house. 

‘And I didn’t know where they were, I thought somebody had come and stolen them away. They were all dead, though. Why would somebody want to steal dead plants? But I looked this morning and there’s a whole row of them. All fresh and green. I think they died and came back to life again. Wouldn’t that be beautiful, young master, if we could die and come back to life again?’

‘No,’ comes the answer. Cold and high. ‘Dead things ought to stay dead.’

And you sit up a bit on the step. And lean forward, looking, and it’s him. It’s Lord Ciel down on the garden path with Finny, and they’re both looking back up at you, and you just sit there holding your cigarette like an utter noddy while Lord Ciel frowns. 

‘What are you two doing out here?’ he asks.

And you stand up all in a hurry and put both your hands behind your back.

And Mr Michaelis stands up too, but much more slowly, and he doesn’t throw away his cigarette.

‘You’re slacking off.’ The young master’s voice is an accusation. He looks pretty as a girl all dolled up in his little winter coat, but he’s got a bitch of a stare. One eye and all ice.

‘Just going back in, sir,’ you say, politely enough, because he is an Earl. And he is your boss, the reason you’re not rotting in Millbank prison. and you’d rather not get on his bad side, stare or not.

‘I see.’ Lord Ciel is looking at his butler now. ‘You smoke.’ It’s hard to read the look on his pointy little face.

‘Oh,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘This?’ And he looks at the cheap paper fag in his hand like he’s never seen it before. ‘It is nothing very serious, my lord.’

‘Why?’

‘Why–’ The butler’s look is a question. And you’re waiting for Lord Ciel to yell at him but he doesn’t. 

‘Why are you smoking?’ The Earl elaborates impatiently.

Mr Michaelis looks very thoughtful. ‘Well, sir,’ he says. ‘It _is_ an appetite suppressant, I believe.’ 

Lord Ciel stands up straighter. ‘You didn’t tell me you smoked.’

The butler tips his head a bit. ‘Surely I cannot fail to have mentioned it, sir.’

‘I think I’d remember,’ says the Earl, ‘a thing like that.’ His blue eye is rather nasty and you’re glad he’s decided to pick on the butler instead.

Mr Michaelis doesn’t seem too worried, though. He crouches down to drop his cigarette into the little empty jam-tin. Since when was there a jam-tin on the step? _Not a habit_ my arse. And he stands up again and brushes off his coat and looks at Lord Ciel.

‘It is nothing very serious, my lord,’ he says again. ‘If it were something truly important I would most certainly have informed you of the fact. If I were hiding a chronic illness of the respiratory system, for example.’ Mr Michaelis is smiling at Lord Ciel, and it’s not the nicest smile you’ve ever seen. 

And the young master is just standing there listening with his face all pinched up.

‘Or if I had chosen to conceal my name, for some unaccountable reason,’ the butler continues. ‘A secret such as that would certainly be worthy of your disapproval. As it is, I hardly believe the consumption of a few–’

‘All right.’ Lord Ciel is snappish. ‘Just get back to work.’ He glares back at you. ‘And you too, Miss Sunderland.’ 

The Earl knows he’s got your name wrong and he doesn’t care. His sour frown says he did it on purpose. And he turns around and goes, and Finny’s trotting after him with a puzzled look on his face.

Probably much the same face you’re giving Mr Michaelis now, because no butler talks to their master like _that_.

He doesn’t seem to notice. 

‘Crux,’ he says, ‘I shouldn’t have put that one out.’ And he reaches around to the cigarette you’ve still holding behind your back, and plucks it out of your fingers before you can protest. ‘Many thanks,’ he says, and he’s already off down the stairs towards the garden. 

‘Oi.’ You whistle at him. ‘ _Oi_.’

But Mr Michaelis doesn’t stop. He calls back over his shoulder. ‘I shall have to owe you, I suppose.’ 

And he’s re-lighting the cigarette as he disappears around the side of the house, following the young master.

There’s nothing left for you to do but go back inside again.

6.

Dinner was a balls-up tonight, after Mey-rin managed to drop both a tray of side-plates (empty) and a gravy jug (full), and Bard burnt the steamed pudding to a sticky cinder in the saucepan, and Finny brought in a bunch of daphne for the table decorations and turns out the young master is allergic to daphne, apparently.

And now everyone is tidying the kitchen. 

Mr Michaelis is in the very quiet sort of mood that everyone seems to recognise as _one disaster away from a proper crack-up_ and everyone is being all brisk and helpful as you wash up the dishes, and Finny is drying them, and Mey-rin is whistling in the pantry as she mops the floor, and things are almost going well again for about ten minutes until you drop a soap-slippery platter on the kitchen floor.

The floor is stone. The platter is porcelain. The noise is deafening. The silence after it is much worse.

Mr Michaelis leans around the doorway of Tanaka’s office and his handsome face is twisted rather unpleasantly.

‘Miss Somers?’

‘Yes, sir.’ You wipe your wet hands on your apron. 

‘Go to bed and spare us another headache, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’ And you’ve never been so tempted to stick your tongue out at somebody’s back. If Finny wasn’t standing here, you just might do it.

You don’t, though. And you don’t even bother waiting until the kitchen is empty, either; you march past the staff room to the pantry and close the door of it behind you and pull the little step-ladder over. And there’s the meat-grinder, up on the top shelf beside the sugar, and you climb up to it. And there’s the cigarette tin. A new one. Bard had to buy a new tin.

You take a cigarette without the tiniest bit of guilt, because they’re probably going to make you pay for that broken platter anyway. It had real gold around the edges. Costly. They can spare a bloody smoke.

But there’s an echo on the stone floor outside. Footsteps. And Bard’s voice is at the end of the corridor. ‘Better make a start on the beef stock,’ he’s saying. ‘Eight hours, yeah? We can simmer it overnight.’

You lean over and pull the light-switch off. He’s only heading for the meat-store, but you don’t want light showing under the pantry door. If the chef catches you in the middle of stealing from his own personal stash–

But Bard stops outside the pantry.

‘Eight hours, yes,’ says Mr Michaelis’s voice. ‘You fetch the bones, and I shall find the salt. Is it rock salt you want?’

‘And vinegar,’ says Bard. 

And you freeze on top of the ladder. 

The pantry door opens, and even in the low light behind him you know it’s the butler. You know the sharp silhouette of his jacket, and the way he holds his head. He doesn’t switch the light on, only reaches up for the canvas bag of salt and the vinegar cruet next to it. 

And Mr Michaelis sighs. ‘If Bard should see you walking out, I shall not be answerable,’ he says. Quietly. And he closes the pantry door again.

Your hands are cold when you climb back down the ladder again, and you don’t go back into the main kitchen. You go straight up to the top floor where the female staff rooms are and you don’t come down again for an hour, two hours, not until you hear everybody else’s bedroom doors shutting.

And then you go down again, because the cigarette’s in the pocket of your apron, isn’t it? And Mr Michaelis didn’t tell you to put it back. It would be a waste not to smoke it, now.

When you get out to the back step, the sky is looking pretty. Clean. Cold. Clear as gems, black and silvery, and all the stars are out. And the scent of your own little bit of smoke is soon lost in the sharp night-time smells.

Perhaps Mr Michaelis saw you come down again. Perhaps he was waiting. He comes out, anyhow, a few minutes behind you.

He sits quietly. He lights his own cigarette. You wait.

And he is still quiet, and your smoke burns half-way down to your fingers before you wonder if he’s actually going to say anything at all.

Is he that furious?

You sneak a look at him, and Mr Michaelis is leaning his head back against the doorframe. His chin is tilted up towards the night-sky. Perhaps sometimes he comes out just to look at the stars. But the orange lamp-glow from inside is lighting half his face, and his eyes are closed. He could almost be asleep. If it wasn’t for the twitch of his hand across his knee, and the spiral of smoke from his cigarette.

It is late, really. And he mustn’t get much sleep, not if he’s up at three like Bard says. Perhaps he’s tired. The air’s so still you can actually hear the chickens shuffling anxiously in their coop, out beyond the vegetable garden. 

Mr Michaelis stirs, and folds his arms. He still doesn’t look at you. And you wonder for a moment if he even knows you’re there.

‘Well,’ he says at last, and it’s strange, as though he’s answering something you just asked; ‘you really ought to be in bed, Miss Somers.’

 _Now_ he wants to talk. 

You look at him. ‘I suppose Lord Ciel lost his temper at you. About the smoking.’

‘My master’s temper appears to be either deeply tied to or directly comparable to British weather.’ 

It sounds like he doesn’t think much of the weather, then. And that’s an insult to Lord Ciel, too, or the closest to it that you’ve ever heard him say; they’re all so loyal to the little kid upstairs. And it’s something else, too. 

You breathe your smoke out slowly. ‘You’re not from here, are you.’ 

‘Not originally, no.’ And Mr Michaelis smiles one of those rather empty sort of smiles. ‘You are London born and bred, I think.’

He’s not so clever, spotting that; you know you sound like it. ‘Too right,’ you say, grinding out the butt between your fingers. ‘I’m a Thames rat. You’re not, though.’

‘No,’ he says shortly. Very good at talking, except about himself. And Mr Michaelis hands you something. A tin of cigarettes. Not Bard’s, not the bright red Virginia Tobacco tin.

‘It would do no good at all if our chef were to realise who is behind the pantry thefts,’ he says. ‘Put them somewhere safe.’ He doesn’t look at you.

‘I see.’ You take the tin. And glance at him warily. ‘Thank you.’ 

Mr Michaelis smiles drily. ‘It isn’t altruism,’ he says. ‘One does not want to antagonise a man whose cupboards are full of explosives. The clean-up is scarcely worth the satisfaction.’

And you put the cigarette tin into your pocket.

You feel his arm stiffen close beside yours. He’s sitting very still. 

‘What is it?’ you say. It seems quiet. But then it clangs inside the kitchen: the service bell, the Earl ringing from his bedroom upstairs, and Mr Michaelis mutters.

‘Shit.’

Quietly, furious. He scuffles to his feet. And ducks back down, and pushes his cigarette between your lips. 

‘Shit,’ he says again, and he’s gone. 

You take the cigarette from your mouth and hold it, pinched carefully, and your fingers are shaking. And you finish the cigarette in the silent frosty darkness, his cigarette, and go back inside. 

But he isn’t there. There wasn’t any point in hoping.

7\. 

It’s after midnight, the next night, and you’re heading to bed, hands still damp from dishwater. You can hear it from the end of the hallway, the wailing– distant as the wind, and a door opens. And shuts again.

It’s the young master’s bedroom. He’s in there, crying like a little kid. 

You know you should go upstairs, but it can only be Sebastian in there with him; he’s the only one who is allowed in the earl’s rooms.

And you wait, there in the hallway. And it’s bloody stupid; you don’t even have a reason beyond curiosity, and the uncomfortable feeling in your bones. The earl of Phantomhive is really just a child, even though half the city’s out for his blood– you’ve seen him in the dining room, and walking in the garden, but somehow he never seemed as small and helpless as he does now. 

It isn’t your job. It’s somebody else’s job. But you wait.

It must be half an hour by the hall clock’s striking, and the door opens again. You see Sebastian, his pale face lit by the flaring candelabra, and he closes his master’s door behind him. He’s coming down the hall, his face strange and shadowed in the flicker.

‘Miss Somers.’ He barely raises his voice, but you can hear it. ‘Up to bed, now. We can’t have our young ladies wandering about in the dark.’ 

You can’t help asking. ‘Is the young master feeling well?’

‘My lord is plagued with nightmares,’ says Mr Michaelis. 

And he barely slows, only shoots you a sharp look as he passes you in the hallway. The arrogance. As if you’ve never even met. But this isn’t the kitchen, of course; this is somewhere else. Something else. And you go to bed, because you know you’ve only got five hours until you’re awake again.

Four and a bit hours, it turns out. 

The tiredness is in your bones when you stomp down the service stairs to the kitchen in the morning. And Bard’s down already, rattling around with pans and still bleary; there’s no point trying to talk to him until he’s into his second pot of coffee. Not a morning man, that one. You’re lucky if you get a grunt.

Not even that, today. 

And you’re straight into work, lighting the fireplaces in the library and the drawing rooms and the master’s study, carrying buckets of coal up the stairs and sweeping out the scullery. 

It’s almost six before you get a chance at a break, and Mr Michaelis is downstairs by then; when you come back in from the staff table, he’s over near the stove with his apron on, making the young master’s breakfast. Waving his knife. He’s talking to Bard. About _what_ you don’t know, but Bard’s listening to him, looking much too alert for six in the morning, and he smiles when Mr Michaelis touches him on the elbow. Too big a smile. And too gentle a touch from the butler; and you almost stop walking. Is _that_ what’s going on, then? You could believe almost anything of Mr Michaelis. It would explain some things.

But you don’t stop walking, because they’re looking over at you now. And you need a cigarette. You have to go and let the chickens out of the coop, anyhow, so you might as well grab a smoke while you’re in the garden.

It’s bitterly cold outside, and the air stings your nose.

It’s brighter than it was this time last week, last month; you can see the grey garden. Spring is coming. You can smell frost, sharp and clean, and on your way back from the chickens you can see it, pale over the sodden grass. All the way to the distant loom of the garden wall. 

And you stop, still reaching for your cigarette lighter.

The dark line against the garden wall is not a trellis. It’s a rope. 

And there are footprints showing in the silvered grass, along the side of the manor house towards the stables. Towards the silent wings of the house. And nobody should be here in the garden, over the stone wall, and you’re following it before you even know you’ve moved.

Somebody’s here. Nobody should be.

He’s there. Just a flash between shed and house, an old coat and his hood pulled up. Short, fast.

If you duck past the garden shed you can cut him off before he gets to the end of the path. Because the stable roof is only a jump from the drawing-room windows, and this is your job. This is why they hired a murderous street rat as a maid. Because the young master upstairs has enemies, and nobody should be in the garden at dawn.

The other side of the shed. And you stop next to Finny’s wheelbarrow on the path, all wet with dew. And all the tools.

Rake, useless. Shovel, too heavy. 

Pruning secateurs. Almost as good as a knife. 

No point throwing them, not at this range. You can only get close enough. Or let them get close enough to you.

And then you’re at the corner of the house, and waiting. Stiff as ice. Trying not to breathe in case it leaves a cloud on the cold air. And the secateurs are gripped like a dagger in your hand. Easy as thinking. Easy as listening, easy as waiting. Not thugs in an alley, now. Not drunks on the docks. Just a job, easy as not thinking at all.

And it’s so quick when it happens. The shuffle of his boots on the grass and then he’s there and you swing. Just once. Hard at his neck. And he yelps like a fox and stumbles, this man, this stranger, with the puckered face and the tattoo across his cheek.

He’s slumped on the wet grass. His neck’s dark with blood, and so’s your hand, and the secateurs that you drop as you look at him. And you can see it now. Stuck in his back, between his shoulders. Shiny and the stain of blood. A knife, a steak knife, and you almost laugh, weakly. It can’t have just appeared. It’s ridiculous. 

There’s a scuffle on the garden path and it’s Finny, red-cheeked in the cold air. Breathless. 

‘You got him, Miss Somers.’ He’s grinning.

And so is Bard behind him. ‘Sebastian thought you’d be onto it,’ the cook says. ‘But you won’t be offended that we took a few precautions.’ And he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the stable roof, and you can see it for a moment. The flash of a rifle, and Mey-rin’s ruffled skirts like a flag in the wind.

‘Well done,’ says that voice, that cool thoughtful voice, and Mr Michaelis has arrived. His hand rests on your shoulder, a breath before he pushes past to see.

It’s hard to think of words. ‘I suppose.’ But you look back at the steak knife, and the spreading stain on the intruder’s coat. And you have an idea where it came from. ‘You did it, anyhow. You didn’t even need me.’

‘No,’ Mr Michaelis says, quite coolly. He’s got that smile on. ‘Not really.’ And the butler is leaning over the body– it is a body, not a person any more– and he’s pulling out the knife. And wiping the mess onto the dead thing’s sleeve, and still smiling. 

His footsteps on the pathway sound too loud, too loud. ‘I was here,’ he says. ‘I was watching. But the day may come when I am not, and it will be your duty, then. Do you understand, Miss Somers?’ He is standing very close, and his eyes are beautiful and horrible. Finny and Bard don’t say anything at all, and neither can you. ‘You must protect our master with your very life. If that is what it takes.’ 

‘Of course.’ Your mouth feels thick. Your hands are numb.

‘You understand?’ And Mr Michaelis isn’t smiling now, and the look on his face is something you can’t even find words for.

‘Of course,’ you say again. And you can’t help thinking of the little lord crying in the night. ‘I promise, sir.’

Mr Michaelis says nothing at all. He just looks at you. And then he nods his head, almost a bow, and waves everyone away.

‘Coffee,’ he says. ‘Inside, now.’

And as quick as it happened it’s over, and Finny holds your hand as you all head back inside again, and he’s talking. You’re hardly listening, but you’re grateful. Half-dizzy. Hands cold, feet half-frozen in your boots, and madly in need of that coffee. Even the burnt stuff Bard pours for you at the kitchen table. And Mr Michaelis is standing at the back doorway, watchful. 

You turn towards him, still fuzzy-headed. ‘The young master, is he safe in–’ 

Mr Michaelis cuts you off. ‘He hasn’t even woken up yet,’ he says, and he flashes you a tiny smile before he stalks away upstairs. 

Not even half-past six in the morning. You’ve still got blood on your apron. 

And you didn’t even get your cigarette.

8.

It’s a long day, and a strange one. Nobody seems too bothered by the fact the house was just attacked by an assassin. Bard seems more concerned about the young master’s breakfast being late; but it isn’t, of course, not under the butler’s eye.

You have linen-washing to do, and Mey-Rin helps, dragging the heavy sodden sheets from the copper and putting them through the mangle. It’s sluicing water and steam for two hours, and you try to focus. The mangle-machine could take a finger off. 

But it’s hard to focus. You have questions.

Half-past eleven and everyone is gathered briefly for lunch. Except Mr Michaelis, as usual, who’s somewhere else doing something nameless.

There’s no easy way to start, so you pick the simple way instead.

‘So. This morning. Does that happen a lot?’ 

And nobody needs to ask what you’re talking about.

‘Quite a lot,’ says Bard, and he sits back in his chair. ‘You did well, though.’

He looks like he’s finished talking about it, but you’re not. ‘Mr Michaelis threw a knife,’ you say. ‘A table knife. It killed that man. Nobody _throws_ a knife.’ The number of times you’ve seen it, drunken fools trying it at the tavern, and the shock on their faces when the blade just bounces off some tar-boy’s coat– and then they get punched, and they learn why you should stab and never, never throw.

‘Mr Sebastian does,’ says Mey-Rin.

‘Mr Sebastian isn’t really a butler, is he?’ You put down your soup-spoon. 

And Bard shrugs. ‘He’s as much a butler as I am a cook.’ He gives you a look like he’s daring you to disagree.

‘He doesn’t eat with us,’ you say.

‘He has his manners,’ says Bard.

‘He doesn’t eat. At all.’ And you wait, but Bard and Finny look at each other. And you go on. ‘The girl from the dairy says he’s a vampire.’

‘Oh,’ said Bard. ‘Does she?’ He starts eating again, quickly. 

You shrug. ‘He’s not exactly normal.’ 

Mey-rin clears her throat. ‘Nobody is, though. Are they?’

‘No,’ agrees Finny. Softly. 

You look around at them all, and they’re avoiding your gaze. ‘But Mr Michaelis is _particularly_ not-normal.’

‘Well,’ says Bard. ‘He’s good at his job.’

And nobody could deny that, and everybody eats in silence for a while.

Finny smiles, though, over his bowl. ‘Maybe Mr Sebastian’s just avoiding Bard’s soup.’

‘Oi,’ growls the cook. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my soup.’

‘Apart from the fact you made it,’ says Mey-Rin, and it must be an old joke amongst them because Bard mutters something, but he doesn’t seem too upset when he pushes his chair back. They are used to each other.

And to the butler, too, because they don’t speak badly of him even if he’s far out of earshot. _Loyalty._ It’s a new one for you.

Not the worst day, although you’re still preparing the fire in the library when the young master comes in after his lunch. And you do what you ought to– turn and bob a bow– and try to leave as quietly as possible. 

But the Earl stands there glaring. ‘Ugh.’ And plumps down in his armchair, sulky as a baby.

It’s ruder than it needs to be, but you stay polite. ‘Sorry, my lord. What’s the matter?’

‘Dust,’ he says. And waves his hand vaguely. ‘You’ve stirred up the coal dust. Go away.’

So you do, brisk and mad, closing the door very softly so he can’t accuse you of slamming it. And that _does_ call for a cigarette, and you head for the kitchen. For the door, and the back step.

And you almost fall over the butler, who’s sitting down here in the grey afternoon. It’s getting cold already. Dark already.

You sit down slowly beside him.

‘Having a bad day, are we?’ he asks, too lightly.

‘The young master.’

‘Oh?’

‘He wasn’t happy with me.’

‘Unimportant.’ Mr Michaelis is looking up at the sky. Following the dip of a bird with his gaze.

‘It is to me,’ you say, more stiffly.

‘No,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘I simply mean my lord is never happy with anybody. It is hardly a personal affront.’ 

‘Oh.’ You consider. ‘That’s rather miserable.’

‘Yes,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘He is.’ He shoots a sideways glance. And announces, out of nowhere– ‘Secret number two.’

‘Pardon?’ You look at him.

‘Secret number two,’ the butler repeats calmly. ‘Everybody has them. Here is another for you. My lord is a miserable child, but I sometimes suspect he would give his immortal soul for a piece of chocolate cake.’

And you grin, because his eyes are suddenly warm and laughing at you, and it’s a nice sort of shiver. He looks quite normal, anyhow. Apart from his eyes; too hot, too watchful. And his face, a little too beautiful. 

‘I know how the Earl feels,’ you say. ‘Most mornings I’d give my immortal soul for a cigarette.’ 

‘Indeed,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘Unwise.’

‘Oh?’ You look at him again. And get out your tin. And your lighter.

‘For a mouthful of smoke and ashes? _Most_ unwise. Even the lowest mortal soul is worth more than you can imagine,’ he says, and you never thought you’d hear a man with eyes like that spouting Sunday School nonsense. 

‘Can’t say I believe in God,’ you say, pausing. ‘He never did much for me.’

‘I am not requesting that you do,’ says the butler. ‘A god is a mental projection. A soul is a personal possession.’

‘I don’t believe in souls, either,’ you say. Mostly just to see what he’ll do. It’d be a funny turn if he was a religious nutter. But you’ve never seen him heading to church, either.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘What do you believe will happen to you when you die?’

And he’s just showing off, now, and you sit still. This is how people talk when they’re very drunk or very lonely at the bar. In the gin hall. You don’t have time for this.

‘Don’t know,’ you say. ‘Heaven or Hell or whatever. Or nothing.’

‘What is your preference?’ His sideways glance is rather dangerous.

‘Nobody chooses Hell, do they?’ 

And Mr Michaelis’s expression is an odd one. ‘Not many,’ he says. ‘A few. And you do not?’

‘I’d choose Heaven. If I could. But I don’t think it’s for me.’

‘No?’

He has no right to look surprised. He doesn’t know you. Or what you’ve done.

‘I’m not a good person, Mr Michaelis.’

His smile is the most annoying thing you’ve ever seen. 

‘And good people bore me, anyhow.’

Mr Michaelis doesn’t answer. He looks away again. His long legs are stretched out down the steps, and his ankles are crossed.

You light up a cigarette, and hold it out towards him. 

He doesn’t take it, doesn’t even turn his head, and your hand falters. _Fine, then._ You tuck the cigarette into your own mouth and put the lighter away with a flourish.

And blow the smoke much too close to his arrogant face. ‘Finished already, are you?’

‘I don’t want one,’ he says.

‘Awfully disciplined of you.’

‘Disciplined. No.’ He smiles sideways at you again, a slow wicked thing that shouldn’t move over your body quite so hotly. He really is smug as anything. ‘This is not the face of discipline, Miss Somers. I am proving a point.’

‘Which is?’

‘The difference between a habit and an obsession. I told you I can give up any time I please.’

Sebastian’s arm is close enough that it’s almost resting against your shoulder, warm in the chill wind, and you’re trying not to shiver. And you know it’s not from the cold, and you can only hope that he’ll misunderstand it.

You blow out a fine trail of smoke. ‘So you did.’ His gloved hands are empty, folded loose across his lap. ‘You’re clearly more principled than I am,’ you say. 

‘Clearly.’ When he smiles this time his teeth flash, white and sharp, and your throat feels very hot. 

‘But you’re still sitting here.’ He’s being an arse this afternoon, and you have work to do, and the cigarette isn’t even half finished when you grind it against the step beside you. ‘The habit isn’t broken.’

‘Of course it isn’t.’ He looks down at you. ‘The habit was not the cigarette,’ he says.

‘No?’ As coldly as you can. 

‘No,’ he says. ‘The habit was the habit itself.’ 

And that’s not what you were expecting him to say. Or hoping, if you’re honest. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that if he doesn’t mean something. 

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ you say. And you wish you hadn’t put the cigarette out because you’re just sitting, now. Waiting. Listening, and you have no excuse to pretend it’s not because of him.

‘It is an addiction,’ Mr Michaelis says quietly. ‘Time, and the passing of it. The illusion of the linear. The singularity of the mortal experience.’ And if you didn’t know better you’d say he was almost certainly drunk. To talk like that. But his gaze is much too steady on you. ‘You don’t believe in souls,’ he says, without any change in his voice, ‘but you risked your life for the young master this morning.’

‘Oh.’ You look back at the garden. ‘That’s what they all do here, isn’t it? It’s part of the job.’

‘You risked dying,’ he says, ‘and you are not even certain you believe in Heaven.’

‘It’s my job.’ 

‘The earl was rude to you today.’

‘Well.’ And you glance up at him. ‘Maybe. But he’s just a little boy. I don’t want him to get murdered.’

‘You were prepared to die for him,’ says Mr Michaelis. ‘For my young master. I shall not forget it.’ He’s still watching you. 

And he leans down, much too close, and you’re looking at the shift of his dark lashes. And by the time you realise he isn’t watching your eyes at all it’s too late, and his hand is at your cheek. 

And his breath. His mouth. Soft, wet. You can’t even gasp against his lips. He’s hungry as a child. And his fingers are firm at your chin. And you feel the slow suck at your bottom lip before he pulls away again, and who, _who_ kisses like that?

Your hands are like ice. But your _face_ –

There is nothing to say.

But Mr Michaelis sits back slowly. ‘Secret number three,’ he says, and his fine face is turned upwards to the sky. ‘I am tired of the taste of ashes.’

He gets to his feet. And there is a brief great light as he opens the kitchen door, before he leaves you in the grey evening once again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this little side-view of the Phantomhive house and its inhabitants! I really have a thing for unresolved endings, don't I? >.<  
> Thanks for reading! xx


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